


Entrapment

by annalore



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:18:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up close, he was everything Punk had imagined from afar.  Pale beneath the bruising, long lashes framing pale blue eyes.  A crocodile smile, inviting but with the hint of danger clear to the discerning eye.  Cody/Punk, slash. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entrapment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JacAlley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacAlley/gifts).



> This was a birthday fic for JacAlley. We're planning on starting the Cody/Punk revolution together, feel free to come and join us on the dark side.

Punk let the car roll slowly down the street.  It was his second pass of the night, and the now familiar sound of loose bits of concrete and broken glass under his tires comforted him more than made him worry for his car.  The day had been sunny and the snow was mostly gone, just dirty remnants clinging to the grass, but the night was cold and clear, with a bright moon.  He had no trouble seeing across the street.  In any case, the kid was standing in the dim pool of light cast by the streetlight on the corner.

From this distance, Punk couldn’t get an exact read on how old he was, exactly, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was still a kid.  He’d been there every night this week, and Punk was drawn back, night after night, to look.  He hadn’t stopped yet, but he could feel that moment approaching, each brief glance he caught fulfilling him less and less, even as he drank in the details.  Tonight the kid was wearing loose blue jeans that hung on him like he’d lost weight recently, and a long sleeved shirt, too long in the sleeves and frayed from wear.  He didn’t have a coat, but he didn’t seem to mind the cold. 

His body was long and lean, easily over six feet, and there was power in his shoulders.  That, too, seemed to be a recent development.  His bulk strained at the fabric of his shirt, and he shifted his shoulders uneasily from time to time.  What struck Punk most was his eyes.  He stood on his street corner hour after hour, night after night, and stared out into the world defiantly.  He didn’t approach cars, didn’t do anything to entice.  And yet, people stopped.  The first time Punk saw that happen, he nearly went blind with range.  He’d had to park around the corner to calm himself down.  When he’d driven back around, the kid hadn’t been there anymore.

Punk’s car drew closer.  Tonight, in the moonlight, the kid’s skin was milk white, marred by the deep purple bruising of a black eye that hadn’t been there the night before.  He stared into the night, as if daring anyone to say something about it.  Punk’s hand slipped on the wheel, and the car swerved slightly.  He righted it, but he’d attracted the kid’s attention.  They were directly across from each other when their eyes met, the kid looking up from beneath long lashes, and Punk thought he saw a flash of recognition.  But that was impossible.  It had been dark every other night before this, and the Monte was navy, old and beaten up, nondescript in every way.

He let his speed increase a little as he drove away, distance breaking the eye contact.  Punk’s window was down, and he was shivering.  It was below freezing, cold for this time of year, that was it, he told himself.  But he knew that wasn’t true.  He pulled around the block, turned around in a parking lot, and approached the corner going the other direction.  Things had changed.  It was now or never.

He rolled down the passenger side window down as he pulled up alongside the curb.  The kid waited until he’d come to a complete stop before he made any move to approach, but he did approach.  He stepped down onto the street, leaned in against the window sill.  Up close, he was everything Punk had imagined from afar.  Pale beneath the bruising, long lashes framing pale blue eyes.  A crocodile smile, inviting but with the hint of danger clear to the discerning eye.  He didn’t speak, he just waited.

“How much?” Punk asked, almost stumbling over the words.  All this, and he hadn’t planned what to say when the moment came.  He didn’t care how much, unless it was more than he had on him, and he had plenty.

The grin deepened.  “That depends on what you’re looking for,” the kid said.  His voice was surprisingly deep, marked with a hint of an accent from somewhere not here that Punk couldn’t place.

“Get in, and we can discuss it,” Punk invited, popping the lock.  “You must be freezing.”

The kid didn’t hurry to open the door, but Punk was a keen observer, and he saw a momentary crack in the façade.  An instant of desperate longing at the promise of warmth.  He slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind him.  Punk closed the windows and cranked the heat.

“That’s twenty to talk,” the kid said.  His eyes skittered around the car, almost nervously, Punk thought.  He seemed to take everything in without looking at anything at all.  Punk was all too familiar with the technique.

He pulled his wallet out of the center console, and handed over a crisp, clean twenty dollar bill.  The kid didn’t look straight at it, just crumpled it in his hand.  Punk was about to put the wallet away, but then he hesitated.  “How much for an hour?” he asked.

The kid grinned wolfishly, regaining some of his former confidence.  “Like I said, that depends on what you want to do.”

Punk counted out five more bills.  “How about I give you a hundred and we go get a burger?”

At that, the kid faltered.  His smile turned into a drawn frown.  His hand hovered in midair as he hesitated.  Then he reached out and took the money, this time folding it and stuffing it in his jeans pocket.  His shirt rose up a bit as he did it to expose a strip of skin, improbably dark for this time of year.  Punk turned his eyes forward.  It wouldn’t do to think too hard about that, not yet.

He could barely concentrate on driving his car, he was so keyed up.  He couldn’t believe this was happening.  He used to drive past that corner, once a week on his way home from work, look at trannies and users and the occasional street kid, look at the cars that came and went and the guys who drove them, and wonder.  And then this kid had appeared, had locked on to him and drawn him in like a tidal pull.  He’d come back, again and again, the attraction growing stronger and taking over his life, until he had no other choice.

Punk pulled through the drive-thru of a McDonalds.  The kid was still slouching in his seat, holding the original crumpled twenty in his hand, his body curled in on itself as if he didn’t know how to make it fit in such a small space.

“Can I get you anything, kid?” Punk asked, stopping just short of the speaker.  It was late, and there was nobody else in line.

“I’ll take a Big Mac,” the kid said, and Punk pulled up.  He ordered two combos, and paid with his credit card.  He saw the kid looking at him sidelong as he put it away, and he wondered if he should be worried.  But he had no reason to, he reminded himself.  No reason at all.

They ate in silence, parked in the empty parking lot, the smell of fast food filling up the car.  The kid ate hungrily, but was careful not to spill.  Punk couldn’t help watching him, even as he scarfed his own fries.

“So, how do we do this?” Punk asked, as he concentrated on gathering his garbage and stuffing it in the bag.  “A motel, or is my place okay?”

The kid looked at him silently, licking grease off his fingers.  There was something, at the mention of Punk’s apartment.  A look of triumph?  It was gone in an instant.  “Your place is fine,” he said, casually by every appearance, except for the slight lisp that intruded into his speech.  “If it’s close.”

“Yeah, it’s close.”

After throwing their garbage away, Punk drove to his building, only a few short blocks away.  It was a bit of a dump, but it was cheap and he had a decent amount of space.  They didn’t talk about money again, as they got out of the car, rode up the elevator together.  Punk’s hands itched to get his hands on the kid.

He waited until they were behind a locked door before he snagged him around the waist and stole a kiss.  He tasted like ketchup and pickles and Punk wanted more, wanted to feel that body against his, under his.  Hold him down, watch him struggle.  But he was getting ahead of himself, and the kid was already pulling away.

They exchanged a long look, and just when Punk thought he was going to start laying down ground rules, talking about his pricing hierarchy, he turned away, looked around the space he was inhabiting.  It wasn’t much, kitchen on one side, living room on the other, and a bedroom and bathroom down the hall.  One turn, and you’d pretty much seen it all.

“Can I use your bathroom?” the kid asked.  He sounded nervous again.

Punk nodded, pointed.  “Down there, on the right.”

While he waited, Punk perched on the edge of one of his breakfast bar stools.  He adjusted himself with a groan.  He was close to breaking, and he hoped this kid wasn’t going to try to rob him before he got what he needed.  He didn’t have much besides the cash anyway, and he was giving that away willingly.

After a few minutes, he spotted movement in the hallway out of the corner of his eye.  He got up and walked over, but it was empty.  He checked the bathroom, also empty.  There was one other place he could be.  Punk went back to the bedroom, not sure what he was expecting to see.  The door was still propped half open, the way he’d left it, but the kid was in there.  From what Punk could tell, he was just looking.  Maybe he was searching for something valuable or maybe he was just the type of person who got off on seeing other people’s stuff, Punk wasn’t sure.

He tread lightly, but as he stepped into the room, the kid spun around.  His hands moved, as if he was about to bring them up defensively, but then he dropped them to his sides.  “I thought I heard you come in here,” the kid said.

Punk heard the lie easily, but he still couldn’t figure the kid.  He took a step closer.  The kid held his ground.  He took another step in, put his hands on the kid’s hips, drew him in.  He could see the bed behind him, the sheets messed up, the comforter thrown aside.  He hadn’t bothered to make it this morning; he’d been running late.  He wanted to see the kid in his arms in between those sheets, no matter that he’d have to pay for the privilege.

He pushed their hips together.  He was so hard he felt like he could break, and the kid was hard too.  Punk let himself think, for a moment, that there was a mutual attraction.  That what he wanted would be welcomed.  But even as he pulled closer, the kid struggled in his arms, trying to pull away.  But that, that made no sense.  He twisted away just in time to mostly avoid a knee to the groin. 

He gasped at the grazing hit, and looked up to find the muzzle of a gun in his face.  And fuck, he didn’t have time to think he just reacted.  He struck out without hesitation, let his training kick in.  He grabbed the gun, quickly turned it around, even as he backed away to give himself room so the same maneuver couldn’t be pulled on him.

“Chicago PD!” the kid yelled, holding up his hands.  His eyes were wide as platters, and he was shaking like crazy.

“Badge,” Punk demanded.  Fuck.  He wasn’t sure what was happening here.  He was holding a gun on a cop, and he wasn’t really sure exactly where he’d gone wrong.  This clearly wasn’t about busting johns.  If that was the case, it would have been over at the curb.

The kid – who couldn’t be that young after all, if he was a police officer – slowly raised a hand to the neckband of his shirt, hooked a thumb underneath it to pull out a chain that had a badge hanging off it.  It looked legit.  Cursing under his breath, Punk raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, then slowly bent to place the gun on the ground, muzzle pointing perpendicular to them.  He took a step back, leaving it an equal distance between them.

The kid stepped in quickly to get his gun.  “How did you do that?” he blurted out as he stood and holstered it.  Punk could think of at least five ways he could disarm him, now that he knew where the weapon was.

“I was a Marine for a while,” he said with a shrug.  It wasn’t anything he couldn’t find out on his own.  He turned his and walked out of the bedroom.  Fuck it all, he didn’t care if he got shot in the back right now.

He sat at his kitchen table, his head in his hands.  He could hear the muted sounds of a one sided conversation from the other room.  Finally, the kid came and joined him, sat down at the other side of the small table.

“Am I under arrest?” Punk asked without looking up.

“No,” the kid answered.

“Then what the fuck?”

The kid reached out and touched his arm.  Punk raised his head, his eyes on the hand that was making contact with his skin.  The kid withdrew his hand, and Punk looked at him.  He seemed different already.  Older, of course.  A sort of confidence settled over him, less brash, less gamine, than what he’d exhibited on the street.  And definitely nervous underneath it.

“This wasn’t personal.  We were searching for… someone.  You fit the profile.”

Mentally, Punk groaned.  He was tempted to drop his head right back down to the table.  There had been stories in the news recently, dead hustlers, talk of a serial murderer.  So he’d driven once too many times in the wrong place, stared at something he wanted… and he’d become a suspect.

“They think they got the guy,” the kid continued.  “This… doesn’t even need to be reported.”

For a second, Punk wondered at his incredible good luck.  But then he remembered the incident with the gun, and he figured the kid didn’t want to report that to his supervisor.  And then… then he remembered the feeling of an erection pressing back against his.  His arousal came back without warning.  The kid was even more attractive to him now, no matter how much he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t like the type.

“You should go,” he said, his voice thick and hoarse.  He wanted anything but.

The kid pushed back his chair and stood.  He walked to the door, skirting the table, keeping Punk in his peripheral vision at all times. 

“Hey, kid,” he said as the kid reached the door.

“It’s Cody,” the kid answered.  His eye was deeply shadowed as he half turned, the bruising looking worse than it had outside.

“I know what it’s like,” Punk said, before he could stop himself, psych himself out.  He gestured to his own eye to indicate the black eye.  “You can call me, if you want to talk.”

Cody shook his head, but he didn’t say anything, either in protest or confirmation.  He pulled the door open, and in a second he was gone.  It was all Punk could do not to go after him.  Seconds passed, and then minutes.  Punk sat there, even after he was long gone.

He realized, eventually, that he’d paid a cop $120 for a cheeseburger and a few kisses.  He realized that when he drove by the corner on Monday, Cody wouldn’t be there.  He realized that that thing he’d seen and coveted and yearned for was only an illusion, but still it pulled at him like a lodestone. 


End file.
